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Marc was laughing, a loud, expansive sound that took up all the oxygen in the small kitchen, while Sylvie’s hand stayed exactly where I’d left it.
The rain was hitting the roof like a bag of brass falling on concrete, and there was Chloe, looking entirely too steady for a woman who’d just downed three double-espressos.
He looked at me with the kind of focused intensity I usually reserved for fact-checking a deputy mayor’s expense report.
I wanted to take that look of hers and press it between the pages of a heavy book until it turned into a stain.
The humidity has turned his hair into a riot of damp curls, and I have never wanted to fix a man’s alignment more.
You are leaning against the marble countertop of the bar, your knuckles white as you grip a silver Dunhill lighter you do not use.
The condensation on the window mirrored the sweat cooling on her shoulder, a map of everywhere we hadn't meant to go.
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
The rain hit the glass like a frantic syncopated brush on a snare, making the silence between our desks feel as heavy as an unplugged amp.
You are a storm in a silk dress, pinned between the cold window and the two of us, tasting like rain and gin.
The rain is a rhythmic pounding against the glass but inside the only sound is the wet, heavy sliding of skin on skin.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes, turning the limestone gray and making the humidity feel like a second, heavier skin.